


raise it up

by skittlesjedward



Category: Jedward, X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Childhood, Crime, Drama, Drugs, Gangsters, Incest, Jedcest, Krays, Multi, Slash, Thriller, Twincest, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittlesjedward/pseuds/skittlesjedward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, strongly based upon the lives of the Kray twins. Set in London around the 1950s-1970s.</p><p>Titles taken from Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up) by Florence & The Machine. </p><p>Rated M for later chapters - will likely contain all kinds of adult content, i.e. drug use, rape, violence, murder, cest (of course), etc. Consider yourselves forewarned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1956: here i am, a rabbit-hearted boy

**1956**

The first time something dies at his hand, Edward is 8 years old.   
  
The rabbit lays still, soft and floppy like a toy, and his fingers tingle with the echo of cracking vertebrae from when he wrung the thing's neck moments earlier. Tears sting his eyes and he's afraid, not liking the way the dead animal stares at him, glassy and cold, but John's hand on his shoulder is a stark contrast, warm and secure. Proud.  _You did good, Edward_ , he says.  _You did good._  They bury the rabbit under some stones by a tree in the back garden and when the dog digs it up a week later they all joke about it at the dinner table, though his laugh is hollow.   
  
Edward swears he can remember the exact moment he felt the life in it go; that split-second where he squeezed that little bit harder and the bones grated together, the rabbit twitching once, twice, and then going limp in his hands.  
  
He swears he can remember almost liking it.


	2. 1961: frozen in the headlights

**1961**

John's 13 and she's in his class at school, and it was mostly a dare from the lads, him and her, but inside he's giddy, queasy with nerves as she pushes her tongue inside his mouth. He doesn't know if kissing is meant to feel like this, all slimy and cold like trying to catch a frog in the rain, but he's trying hard not to show that he doesn't know what he's doing. She stops, suddenly, and John's cheeks flush with heat as she pulls back and he feels terror slam fast in his chest because she must know, she must know he's not done this before, and she'll run and tell everyone and  _God_ , he wishes the ground would just open up right now and swallow the pair of them whole. "Would you tell your brother to stop staring at us?" Her voice is a whisper, her eyes soft and shy and John almost dissolves against her in relief. "It's queer." He jerks around to catch Edward in the act, the other boy immediately looking down at his folded hands, his feet, the floor.   
  
"I told you to keep watch," he hisses, and Edward nods, quickly turning away and doing just that.   
  
Except he's not, he's just staring into the distance, trying to ignore the wet sounds of kissing behind him, the soft pants of breath and then what sounds like a tear of fabric, and John whispering  _shh, shh_ , over and over. Maybe she whimpers, maybe she doesn't; Edward doesn't want to know and he doesn't want to be here, in front of the bike sheds while their friends play football on the grass in the distance ahead of him.   
  
What he does know is that later that night John doesn't look like how he usually does when they are getting ready for bed. Something is definitely wrong, and Edward had known it the second their break time was over and they had to go back to lessons. John hadn't looked at him as they walked through the corridors, fetching their satchels from the pegs. In fact, Edward can't remember if John had even said so much as a sentence to him after what happened at break. The way John is avoiding his eyes and looking so  _dark_  is making unease twist in Edward's guts and he wants to apologise, but he's not sure what for, so he says it anyway, softly. John's eyes snap up to him from where they had been looking at the sheets he was peeling back.   
  
"You're sorry?" John's voice is just as hushed, for neither of them want to raise the temper of their father downstairs, but there is an edge to John's words that Edward's lacked, and it makes Edward flinch. Before he can answer in the affirmative, John's hand swings out of nowhere and connects with Edward's cheek, and he stares at his own sheets, burning all over with humiliation. "Too right you are. What the hell did you think you were playing at?" If possible, John's tone quietens even more at the curse he just used, knowing how much trouble he'd be in if he was caught.  
  
"I..." Edward starts, fully expecting to be interrupted, but when he looks up from picking at loose threads on his blanket, John is staring at him.  _Into_  him. "I just wanted to know what it was like." The admission makes his cheeks tingle even harder than the slap he'd received moments prior, and he wishes that could be it, that John could just let it be and they could both go to sleep and carry on tomorrow like nothing happened, but he knows it's far from over. John must feel too wronged, too betrayed by Edward's staring earlier that he can't let it go, and Edward truly is sorry, but at the same time he isn't. How else was he going to know what it was like to kiss a girl? The boys were allotted one hour of television time a night until the money ran out on the meter and that was an hour before anything truly  _interesting_  - to teenage boys, at least - came on, and it wasn't like there were girls queuing up around the block to have a go with Edward. No, they all fancied John, and Edward feels himself fill up again with a certain kind of indignancy at that, and it's enough to quell his blushing temporarily.  
  
"What  _what_  was like?" Was not exactly the response Edward was thinking of, and it makes him red all over again when he notes John's smile. Oh, God. They didn't just kiss. John laughs quietly and finally settles under his sheets, giving Edward the opportunity to pull his own up to his chin in an attempt at hiding. "Kissing, right?" Edward doesn't move or respond in any way, so John just continues, leaning over to turn off the lamp on the bedside table between them. The sudden darkness makes no difference; Edward can still picture John's smile as he speaks. "It was alright. Kind of... Wet." Suddenly his brother giggles, a soft and awkward sound, and Edward relishes in it, the tension between them dissolving, and he joins in. It feels good to laugh about it now, but as he's wondering if he'll ever get an apology for the slap earlier, John's hand is thumping around on his covers and finding Edward's, and that's it. That's his apology. Edward smiles and squeezes John's hand as acceptance because it's the best he'll get. John's not the greatest with words and he just has a bit of a temper and that's okay. It's more than okay, because Edward isn't sure if he wants to hear any more about John's spit-swapping experience anyway.   
  
Enough time passes in silence for Edward to think John's asleep and he tries to take his hand back because it's cold out of the covers. Nothing is said, but he knows John's awake now, since his fingers don't let go of Edward's when he attempts to move them. "Johnny?" He whispers to the darkness, and there's nothing. Nothing, except a hitching breath, and then Edward's mattress dips under John's sudden weight and his brother is crawling into bed with him. Their legs tangle automatically, even if it's been a long time since they shared a bed. John's nose presses against Edward's shoulder and they both sigh. This is a better apology than hand-holding, Edward thinks, but then he's thinking too much. He's thinking about how John and the girl were kissing, and what might've happened once he turned his back, what those noises were about, what ripped, just... what  _happened_. Surely  _wet_  wasn't all it was.  
  
"D'you still want to know what it was like?" John's sleepy, his voice is gravelly and Edward swallows, manages a shrug of his shoulders somehow with his brother half on top of him like that, and then the weight lifts, and John's peering down at him in the dim moonlight seeping through the curtains. Edward can't speak, can only hear the rush of blood roaring in his ears and he blinks, thinks he catches a smile on John's mouth before it is far too close for comfort and he's wincing again like he was before he was slapped. "You'll not get another chance, Eddie," John sing-songs, even though he's barely above a whisper, and Edward wants to push him off and call him a square and be done with it. He doesn't. So John's mouth crashes down on his own far too quickly and their teeth click together, and it's horrible until John pulls back and then for some God-damned reason  _tries again_  before he can even say no. He's trying so hard to think that it's grotty he almost believes it, but then John's tongue coaxes his into movement and it's like fireworks go off in his stomach or something, and he feels positively trippy. "Far out," John whispers when they part again, then something shuffles in the landing and he scrambles back into his own bed so fast that Edward's not even sure anything just happened at all.  
  
A shaft of light slices into the room as the door opens and Edward prays for three things: that he was quick enough to close his eyes, that he is still enough to look asleep, and that his brother is doing exactly the same. The light dims and brightens in an almost-lullaby as the shadow of their father sways in the doorway. "G'night boys," his voice stumbles on the sentence, simple as it is, and Edward doesn't need to be close enough to smell his father to know that he's completely loaded. Luckily that's all it is, a quick goodnight, and the door is closed once more and it's dark again. He's barely finished sighing with relief when John is hissing at him from the bed opposite.  
  
"Don't you  _dare_  tell anyone what just happened or I'll pound you."  
  
"Goodnight, John," he whispers in response, turning over to bury himself in the sheets and pray for three things again: for sleep to come quick, to not be banished to Hell for whatever just happened, and for John to be in a better mood in the morning.


	3. 1963: the looking-glass, so shiny & new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor violence.

**1963**

Their grandad picks them up twice a week for boxing training.   
  
It was something their dad thought was a good idea, something to toughen them up in preparation for the real world when the fun they had 'pissing about' in school was over and done with. In their early teens, it wasn't about the love of the sport, it was more about spending some blessed time away from the house, plus the twins loved to listen to their grandad talking about the good old days. He used to be a boxer himself, and the fact was that he was much more of a role-model to them than their drunk of a dad. Their interest began to pick up when they were around 15, when skipping with ropes and bag work were overruled in favour of sparring in the ring.   
  
The first time that Edward knocked John out, he fully expected a clip round the ear from his grandad, or for John to immediately leap up and kick his arse six ways from Sunday, but neither outcome occurred. Instead, his grandad leapt into the ring and raised Edward's arm up high. Victory. The rush of elation and adrenaline left Edward giddy and giggling through his gumshield while his grandad knelt to revive John. Edward still remembers the look in John's eyes once the fog in them had cleared, a look that both chilled and thrilled him.  
  
\---  
  
"C'mon Ed," John is saying now, muffled with the red plastic covering his teeth. He's taunting Edward and they both know it, but that's what they need to tap into their temper and send his fists flying. The sun is low outside the large window on the side of the gym and it makes the ring almost glow, dust swirling up and around each time they hop from foot to foot opposite each other. John lunges and takes a jab, catches Edward in the chest and their grandad tuts from the side.  
  
"Higher, Johnny boy," he calls, motions with his fists. Edward grins around his gumshield and swings while John's guard is down. His glove connects solidly with his brother's temple and makes a satisfying thump, but John stays up with only a slight sway. "Good lad, Edward!"  
  
John's eyes flash dark and Edward thinks knows what's coming, but it's not often John lands a shot. Maybe he actually wants it, John's gloved fist in his face. Yeah, maybe he's wanted it all along. He tastes blood before he feels the pain, and staggers back as his grandad is yelling encouragement at the pair of them. His nose throbs brightly but he blinks tears away, leaping back into a proper stance and narrowing his eyes at John, who is apparently as surprised as Edward that he managed to land a proper punch.  
  
"You're going down," he laughs thickly, the taste of blood on his tongue spurring him on, the pain all but gone as adrenaline takes over. John doesn't have the time to retort but brings his arms up to guard his head as Edward showers him with as many punches as the short burst of energy will allow. They're not that heavy; a few land in tender spots like his ribs that leave John aching and having to catch his breath but it's soon over and their arms are tangled as they lean upon each others shoulders, panting.  
  
They break apart once their grandad claps his hands twice, signalling the end of the session. John has to get a few extra playful cuffs to Edward's side as they make their way down from the ring, so Edward retaliates, spits out his bloody gumshield in John's direction and they both laugh tiredly when it bounces off to the floor. "Good fight, boys," their grandad says, before helping them both in turn to take off their gloves. "Now let me get a look at that nose." They steer off to the corner, Edward being told to pinch his nose and tip his head back while their grandad goes to fetch a wet rag. John stares for a moment at his wrapped hands, the right one in particular. He flexes his fingers, thinks he can feel the echo of Edward's nose on his glove as it smashed against it and finds himself grinning. He spits out his own gumshield into his hand, goes to pick up Edward's from the floor and marvels at how his brother's blue plastic is sticky and swirled with saliva and blood a moment before he chucks it down with his own into the bucket.  
  
"Is it broken?" He asks, looking up at Edward while he peels off the wraps on autopilot. Edward shakes his head no and John feels strange, a weird mix of relief and disappointment. At least their dad will be happy. John, despite being the stockier of the pair of them, wasn't ever too great in the ring. His punches were heavier than Edward's most of the time but boxing in general was more his brother's thing, usually. He was taller, more wiry; Grandad always said Edward reminded him of himself at that age, a champion featherweight in the making if he could only get some more force in his fists. He was always just a bit too quick for John but this time... John frowns as he tries to recollect what actually happened. This time it was as if Edward just stood there and let himself be hit. "Wait. Did you let me hit you?" He steps closer to his brother, lowering his voice, unable to keep from staring at how the blood paints Edward's features, smears against his white teeth, over the curve of his chin.  
  
"Why would I do that?" Edward counters, gaze steely, but then he's smiling as their grandad comes back, grateful for the damp cloth being wiped over his face to clear off the stickiness. "Cheers, Grandad." He gets a cuff around the head with the rag in response and the two of them share a laugh. John is still staring, utterly confused. Edward turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. It's hot and his wraps chafe John's sweaty skin. "You got a good hit, man." The words don't match Edward's tone at all and John wants to shove the hand away from his shoulder. Patronising little dork. Still, their grandad echoes the sentiment and it feels more genuine coming from him, so he mutters a thank you while looking at Edward's feet.  
  
"Come on boys, better get you home before your mum has a cow." The stuffy silence of the gym is broken by laughter once again as the twins find it hard not to be amused by their grandad's incessant attempts to be hip.


	4. 1948: ready for a fight

**1948**

Susannah strains to sit up, face ablaze and beaded with sweat as she pushes again, as hard as she can muster, as hard as the nurses at her sides are encouraging her to. She squeezes the hand of the one on her right so hard that knuckles crack in protest and, ever polite, she pants out an apology as she’s shushed and a towel dabs her brow. John is to her left, pacing and smoking with Kevin in the crook of his arm, bawling tight against his chest because mummy’s hurting and he doesn’t understand why. “Come on, Sooz, that’s it…” He mutters around his fag, reaches out with one big paw to brush the hair from her face and she grimaces, but it’s almost a smile, and he manages one in return. Suddenly, gloriously, there is the shrill cry of a newborn, sending Susannah giddy with memories of Kevin’s birth two years prior and she longs to hold this new one in her arms and pepper kisses on its precious little face even though she’s torn and exhausted, but the doctor is still staring between her legs. “What the bloody hell’s going on?” John is saying, he doesn’t know much about childbirth but he knows the afterbirth is meant to come now, and it’s just not, and no one looks as panicked as he feels, and he’s ready to punch someone’s face in a minute if they don’t tell him what’s happening.   
  
“We… Oh, God - congratulations, Mr. Grimes, it’s another baby boy!”  
  
—-  
  
The twins are sleeping in a tangle of tubes, impossibly small. Susannah can barely keep her eyes open, Kevin tucked up against her side as John’s mother arrives, giving only a nod in greeting before she advances on the incubator. “Look at that,” she says quietly, voice clipped. Her face is an impasse, stoic and weathered, but always, always with a slash of red lipstick. The boys have stickers on their tiny little nappies, determining one from the other. Red for John Jr. and blue for Edward. She gives a huff of a noise, tapping her finger on the incubator’s plastic on John’s side. “He looks like he’ll last through the night, for sure.” Her finger hovers to Edward, wavering slightly, and John raises an eyebrow without a word. “But I don’t give tuppence for that one.”


	5. 1954: you made a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor domestic violence.

**1954**

The boys are in the bath, all three, the twins and Kevin. It’s never Kevin, John, and Edward to Susannah - it’s the twins and Kevin. Kevin and the twins. She even arranges them that way in the water; Edward on her right, then John in the middle, then Kevin on her left. It was easier when the twins were smaller, when she had a shameful month or so of being unable to tell them apart. It wasn’t for long, not after their personalities began to emerge and she knew for sure whose cry it was that woke her in the night, whose forehead she kissed even when she was half asleep, whose little mouth latched onto her nipple.  
  
She shampoos Kevin’s hair first; fair and curled, a nest atop his small head. She hums as she lathers, noting she’ll have to trim it soon enough as the curls are sneaking over his ears and low on his neck and school won’t be having that. The twins are chatting quietly to each other in words that are familiar but not quite, they tend to lapse into their own kind of language when they’re not at school and Susannah doesn’t stop them. She never stops them doing anything, her precious baby boys. Kevin is sailing a little blue boat around his legs, oblivious to his brothers. Susannah’s fingers move to John’s scalp, now, and she watches as Edward’s brow furrows like his own head is being scrubbed at the same time. Her twins are so beautiful, so fascinating. She could watch them forever.   
  
“ _Sooz!_  Get here now!”   
  
His voice booms and startles all four of them into silence, save for the bathwater sloshing against the sides of the tub from when the boys flinched. Kevin’s boat floats towards the taps and makes a soft clunk as it strikes the porcelain. Susannah fixes her smile back into place and squirts a bit more shampoo into her hands, rubbing her palms over John and Edward’s heads before she dips beneath the water to rinse her fingers. “I’ll be right back, my loves,” she whispers, and her heart swells when she stands at the way three pairs of big green eyes blink up at her; loving, trusting. She wipes her hands on the back of her skirt that she then straightens. “Look after your brothers, Kevin.” She gives a nod and then ducks out of the bathroom, pulling the door almost to behind her.   
  
“I thought I told you to get this fucking dog outside-“  
  
The rest of their father’s words become muffled as another door is closed, but raised voices are raised voices, and Kevin knows he has to be a big boy right now for his brothers while mummy and daddy are having one of their talks. He takes their hands and urges them to turn to him, his hands going to their hair in turn to help them wash. John’s first. Edward has found Kevin’s boat and is filling it up with water, letting it sink to the bottom of the bath, pulling it up, tipping it out, and doing it all over again. John makes to grab for the boat but Kevin can’t deal with two arguments right now so he holds John’s wrist. “No, Johnny, let me finish your hair first,” he says, and thankfully there’s not much protest, but then Edward gives his twin the boat after a moment anyway.  
  
They’re all smiles and soft giggling as Kevin fashions the twins’ hair into Elvis-style rolled quiffs with the suds as an attempt at keeping their attention away from the row in the other room but they still hear it. The sharp sound of flesh against flesh, skin that meets skin quickly, once, with force. They don’t know what hit what, of course, but their young imaginations fill the gap for them - picturing their mother clutching her red raw cheek after a slap from their father isn’t a pleasant image but it’s likely the truth.  
  
Kevin tries to distract the twins again with more soap games but the damage is done and he’s just a child himself at eight; he can’t take the horror and fear from their eyes any more than he can remove it from his own. The bang of the front door stuns all three of them into silence and the boat clunks against the side of the bath again. The twins sit unmoving, hugging their knobby knees with eyes squeezed shut as Kevin rinses the shampoo from their hair with a cup to the soundtrack of their mother’s broken sobs in the front room.


	6. 1966: how quickly the glamour fades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something different for this chapter.


	7. 1958: midas is king & he holds me so tight

**1958**

It’s the wettest summer. The boys can’t play outside because it’s lashing down, rendering the garden a mud bath. As much as John wants to be out there getting wet and dirty, Mum won’t let them, so he just presses his nose against the living room window and draws in the fog from his breath. Edward is on the floor with the dog, giggling loud at each nose-lick, echoing a bark whenever one sounds. John turns when Toby trots off in search of a toy or food and decides to take the pup’s place on the rug, pawing at his brother. “I’m bored,” he sing-songs, and Edward is nodding in agreement, but he looks far-off and sleepy. They just had tea, milky and sweet. John wants to run it off, Edward usually naps. He fingerwalks over Edward’s jumper and then snuggles close. Maybe he could nap, too. Edward is warm and his jumper smells nice, nicer than his. They’re alone and it’s quiet, except for the sounds of crockery as Mum washes up in the kitchen, the occasional yap from Toby. Dad is asleep in bed with a bad head and Kevin is with Grandad. John likes these times best. He settles, curled to Edward’s side, his head on his brother’s belly, gazing at their matching socked feet while Edward’s breath evens and slows.  
  
There’s a gurgle beneath his ear and it makes a laugh erupt out of him. It startles Edward awake and he’s blinking slow, eyes unfocused at first as he wakes and then his brow furrows. “What, John?”   
  
"Your belly!" He giggles, sitting up and pulling at Edward’s jumper. His shirt is still tucked in to his trousers so he digs a little to get it out, and Edward squeals, his sides sensitive. Finally his brother’s belly is revealed, heaving and shaking with laughs. John presses his ear to the bellybutton again, facing up this time so he can see Edward’s face. He imitates the gurgles when they sound, and they’re both laughing now, John’s head bobbing all around with the tremors.  
  
"Get oooff," Edward whines, pushing gently at John’s head. He doesn’t like his belly, John knows. It’s because it’s different. Edward is slightly chubbier, but he’s taller too, and Edward’s bellybutton looks different to John’s. They don’t like being different; they’re twins, everything should be exactly the same. It’s why Edward gets teary sometimes in the morning before school, because his hair won’t sit right like John’s does, but John always fixes it. He can’t fix Edward’s bellybutton, though. They’ve tried.   
  
John pokes at it gently, and shushes his brother’s protest before it even fully sounds since he knew it was coming. There’s a pause, and Edward knows what’s next now, too, what always comes whenever he feels different to his twin. “This is where we joined,” John says softly, and Edward is already smiling. He gives Edward’s belly another little tickle, and they laugh. “Your bellybutton joined to mine when we were in Mum’s belly, that’s why mine goes in and yours is flat, okay,” he continues, and they both nod solemnly. John’s head drops back down and he presses his face to Edward’s belly, and his brother squeals again, because eyelashes tickle there so much. “I can see what you ate yesterday, Edward!”   
  
"No you can’t," Edward retorts, but he’s grinning so big.   
  
"Fishcakes!" John laughs and looks up for a second, then he’s back down again, squinting into Edward’s bellybutton with all his might, looking for yesterday’s dinner. "And mash and peas!" He only knows because he ate it at the exact same time, and Edward knows that now. It’s the ritual of it all. The comfort of it. It settles them enough that they can go back to napping, John’s head keeping Edward’s bare belly warm, Edward’s fingers ghosting the shell of his pointed ear, which only got that way because of Edward tugging at it in their mum’s belly, of course.


	8. 1965: i start spinning, slipping out of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor violence.

**1965**

He sees three colours, mainly. Red, blue, and black.  
  
It’s a blur, the fight; his head is swimming before he even gets into the ring because there’s a crowd at this one, and he’s not used to performing in front of others much. Nausea twists in his guts, nerves, slick and dark, and he can’t quite meet John’s eyes. This isn’t sparring. They’re not training anymore. He swallows though his throat is dry and constricting. A lump of dusty air against his windpipe as he leans back and closes his eyes against the hot overhead lights, whispers a silent prayer if God is even listening:  _please, let it be a draw_.   
  
It’s hard to land punches when he can’t bring himself to look directly at John. Every hop he takes his stomach lurches and he feels like he could vomit. He’s hot but his hands are numb, wrapped tight beneath his gloves and clenched. Ready, physically, but he isn’t. He can’t stop thinking. Is John feeling the same or not? He can’t even tell and it terrifies him. Maybe John has a braver face, maybe the scowl he’s sporting is a mask to hide that he feels this, too.  _Please, let it be a draw_.  
  
Pain and heat explode at the side of his head all of a sudden, a punch landing higher than all the others that catches him out, makes him stumble as his eyes struggle to focus. There’s a shout from the side of him that he realises is their dad and he’s cheering. The first thing he sees again is John’s gumshield, he’s smiling, he’s actually smiling. He’s proud and anger flashes in Edward, then. He wants to snuff it out. How can his brother be happy about this? He sets himself right and vows he’ll give it a shot, now. If John is all in, then so is he.   
  
He’s quicker and he always has been, if he can only dodge John’s blows for long enough then maybe John will get tired and then he’ll take him out. Tactics be damned, there’s no time, he can’t think on his feet especially not as John clocks him in the face again. Tears sting and obscure his vision, he knows he’s fallen on one knee but he doesn’t know for how long until the referee is in his face, trying to catch his attention with clicking fingers.   
  
"Okay, I’m okay," he slurs out past his gumshield, lets adrenaline push him back up onto both feet and the split-second the ref is gone, jabs John square in the jaw and sends him flailing back into the ropes. The bell goes.  
  
He can’t hear a word Grandad is saying. The towel is cold and wet and blessed about his shoulders but beneath it his skin is ablaze. His temper feels the same, jagged and raw. John stares at him from the opposite corner and Edward wishes he could leap up and run over there, pummel the shit out of him, get this over with.  _Fuck you_ , he tries to say with his eyes,  _fucking fuck you_.   
  
His energy is back because he’s angry, it makes him hot and itchy all over and that’s when he sees red when he manoeuvres closer to John, gets tangled in his brother’s arms when they try to hit each other at the same time. The ref steps in and peels them apart and finally, Edward meets the eyes of his twin. Whatever he expected, it’s not that. There’s nothing there, nothing at all. John is just blank and it’s infuriating to Edward, how can he not feel this? How is this not affecting him? Fuck a draw. Now all Edward wants is to not lose.  
  
It must be a minute into this second round that Edward eventually grabs his chance. He’s got John in the chest and the side and he knows it’s not fair, because John is asthmatic and he’s not, but fuck it. This whole thing isn’t fair, Edward thinks, swinging again hard under John’s ribs, satisfaction sweeping over him when he hears John’s pained wheeze, feels sick when he watches his brother double over in agony and lack of breath.  _Fuck you, fuck you_ , it’s a mantra in his head as he lets his fists fly again and again because the ref’s not stopping him and it feels good, it feels so good, until.   
  
Until John suddenly rears up again and that’s when he sees blue, a brief glimpse of his brother’s gumshield as he smiles, and then that’s when he sees black.  
  
For John it’s almost like it happens in slow motion. He gets a breath in between Edward’s blows and though it fucking kills him to straighten up he forces himself to, and there’s a gap, a blessed gap between his twin’s arms and he goes for it. An uppercut, right to the chin. He’s never seen anything like it. Edward’s eyes roll back in his head and his body is soft immediately, he flops like a doll to the floor and he’s out. Elation soars in him as the bell signals it’s all over, his dad is pissed and stinking as he rushes into the ring to hug him tight and he doesn’t fucking care. He won. He did it. The ref is lifting John’s arm up and congratulating him and he’s floating in a mix of disbelief and pride until something almost trips him up and he realises it’s Edward’s foot.   
  
His brother is still on the floor, out cold, and Grandad is slapping at his face trying to revive him and there’s nothing. Usually Edward is groaning by now and trying to get up, but there’s nothing. John feels winded all over again, lungs seizing painfully as the air rushes out and panic rushes in, instead.  
  
"Edward," he pants, spits out his gumshield, shaking his dad off of him and dropping to the floor on his knees, cursing his fucking gloves because they are keeping him from touching Edward’s bare shoulders properly. "Edward!"   
  
Nothing.


	9. 1958: i wish that i could just be brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: animal death.

**1958**

John was 10 the first time he held a gun.   
  
He remembers that it was heavy, heavier than it looked. People on telly toted them so easily like they were nothing, like they weren’t the terrifying devices they actually were. They were all about justice and righteousness, and John didn’t know anything about that back then. He never would, not the proper definition, anyway.   
  
He remembers thinking about bullets, wondering how something so small could inflict so much damage. How it was so smooth and cold in his shaking fingers as he pressed one into the chamber.   
  
He remembers how he didn’t want to remember anything else about that night, but it would come back to haunt him in his dreams for years.   
  
They were outside, him and Edward, with Toby. Tossing a frisbee back and forth across the garden, laughing because it was too high for Toby to get but he’d try anyway. He kept trying, springing up on his hind legs with his mouth all open, drooling and barking whenever he missed and scampering back to whoever had caught the orange plastic last.   
  
It was Edward, maybe, who had it last. Yeah, he’d complained about it because John had thrown it too low and now Edward had grass stains on his jeans and mum was going to have a cow about it when they got in for dinner. But it had been funny, the way he’d stretched and then eventually threw himself across the lawn, skidding to save the disc from Toby’s teeth, and they’d laughed until John started wheezing and Edward had to rub his back to get him to calm down.  
  
He remembers how quickly Edward’s hand shot away from where they’d settled between his shoulder blades when their dad emerged from the front door, squinting against the sun and a fag in his sausage fingers. Like always. It made John shudder like he could taste the yellow stains there, the bitterness of tobacco making him want to spit. He had never wanted to smoke like his dad, but then things changed. Everything changed.  
  
The twins stood silently, side by side as their dad stumbled over to the car, and this wasn’t a freak occurrence but they hated it every time because Dad driving drunk was never a good thing, and they knew Mum would be crying in the back room over it, but they couldn’t say anything. Toby had yipped, then, and Edward had shushed him hurriedly, lest their Dad’s attention be dragged back over to the pair of them, which they didn’t want.   
  
"C’mon, boy," he remembers Edward’s voice right then, so soft. "Head’s up, Johnny!"  
  
John wasn’t ready for it. He’d been watching his dad in the car, engine on, fumbling with the gear stick, chewing on that cigarette in his mouth, smoke billowing out of him like a dragon and sometimes John thought he maybe actually was one, the amount of times he roared around the house. He saw a blur of orange whizz past his head but it was too late, his arms barely moved as the disc sailed on, and then there was Toby, diving after.  
  
"Toby, no!"   
  
He remembers his own voice, screeching and unbroken then, shrill like a girl’s and cracking with fear. The car lurched forward so quick that he didn’t have the time to look away, to cover his face, anything. There was a thud and a whirr as the engine stalled, the click of the car door opening, then Edward’s stuttered sob from next to him, so he knew Edward had to have seen, too.  
  
They ran to the car, where their father was crouching by the wheel and Edward was choking so he remembers pulling his brother into his arms, turning him away from the mess. “Oh God, oh God,” he kept saying, and John couldn’t speak, couldn’t move then, couldn’t do anything but stare at the floor, the scrap of fur and mess that was Toby, the hulking figure of their dad trying to pull the dog out from under the wheel.  
  
"Shut the fuck up crying, would you? You big Jessie," Dad had grunted and tugged again and Toby was out but it wasn’t Toby, John wanted to be sick but he couldn’t, Edward was shaking and he had to be strong, where was Kevin? Where was Mum? "Fucking hell. Fuck. Christ."  
  
"No, no, no no no," Edward wasn’t listening and John couldn’t make him, he was so numb. It was too quick again when their dad stood and pulled the pair of them apart, giving Edward a shake and a short, sharp swat to the face.  
  
"I said shut the fuck up, boy. What are you, a little girl? Come on.  _Come on_ ,” he was pulling Edward’s arm and tugging him into the garage, and John’s legs felt like jelly but they stuttered into action soon enough, hurrying after them both.   
  
"Dad-" He began, but he was silenced with a glare, and he knew what the look in those eyes meant. Be quiet or you’ll get leathered, too. He hated these times: the times when he was forced into silence and not standing up for Edward, because whenever he did he’d get twice the hiding Edward did. He used to stick up for his brother, they’d stick up for each other all the time. It didn’t matter how many times they got the slipper or the belt, they’d always stick up for each other. But lately they’d stopped, and he didn’t know why, but he hated it all the same.  
  
Dad was rummaging in a drawer at the work bench with one big hand, the other still holding onto Edward’s skinny arm so tight that John knew there’d be bruises there for days. He wished so hard then that he was bigger and stronger, that he could push his dad away and save Edward, because hearing him cry was making something in him hurt so bad. Then he saw it. The gun.  
  
"Edward," Dad started, voice low. "Toby’s in a bad way right now. You have to be a big boy." He was pressing the gun into Edward’s trembling hands and John remembers seeing the tears and snot drip right off of Edward’s nose onto the floor, swears he can remember hearing it splat on the concrete among their shoes. "Come along. Be a big boy and put him out of his misery."  
  
"Daddy, no, please, no-" Edward was crying harder now, shaking all over like a leaf and John wanted to hug him so tight he couldn’t breathe, just anything to get him to stop, to get  _this_  to stop. He had to squeeze his eyes shut tight when there was another slap, but Edward had stopped crying then, save for the odd hiccup. Still, he adamantly shook his head, his teary eyes staring back at their dad with a defiance that John had never witnessed before. It terrified him.  
  
"Fucking faggot. I’d swear you weren’t mine but there’s fucking two of you," was the hissed reply, and the pair of them nearly recoiled with the whisky stench that never got any easier to stomach. That was when the metal was shoved into his hand, instead.  
  
He knew he was crying as he loaded it up, but at least he wasn’t loud. The tears tracked over his cheeks and down his chin but he didn’t make a sound. Edward was still shaking next to him and John couldn’t look, couldn’t watch anything except his feet as he followed their father back out of the garage to the drive. Toby, poor Toby, he was whining long and low and John couldn’t look. He didn’t want to think about it.   
  
"See, Johnny’s a real man, Edward. Just like his dad, aren’t you, son?" He couldn’t react. It just wasn’t fair. Aiming was hard with his eyes so blurred though he was thankful for the tears obscuring his view from what he was going to fire at. Dad steadied his hand for him and that was it.   
  
It was the sound of Edward retching and the smell of vomit rising up around him that he remembers, then. Not the sound of the shot, not the recoil snapping his hand back, not the smell of gunpowder or cut grass, not the whimper of their dog. Just Edward, next to him, puking on his shoes.


	10. 1965: rushing towards the skyline

**1965**

He’s floating.   
  
He’s floating, then John pulls him under.   
  
He’s floating, then four fingers and a thumb curl warm and tight around his ankle and pull.   
  
He slips beneath the surface, the only air the gasp he took a mere moment prior burning in his lungs.   
  
He forces his eyes open against the salt-sting and John is there, his blonde hair a halo wispy about his head in the water. He can’t breathe. It hurts and John is still, until he tries to kick his way back up to the surface and finds John’s hands on his shoulders keeping him down.   
  
Pressing hard against him, now. Legs tangling around his own like vines and he’s so heavy, it’s so hard to fight. He wants to scream but he needs to save his air, his ribs feel sore and John is holding him so tight.   
  
 _No,_  is all he can think.  _No. Please, no._    
  
He kicks out one last time with a burst of energy from God knows where and John’s grip on him loosens enough that he can break free. He sees light above and kicks again, again and again until he breaks the surface, gasping in gulp after gulp of blessed air.   
  
After a while, he floats.   
  
After a while, there’s a hand at his ankle.   
  
His throat feels raw suddenly and he cries out, eyes flying open and seeing nothing but white. It’s so bright in the room that it just sears into him and hurts, so he closes his eyes again and tries to swallow. There’s soft fingers at his forehead and he opens his eyes again, sees a face he doesn’t recognise.   
  
"Who-"  
  
The woman shushes him and takes his hand, lifting it up and then pushing a syringe onto the tube taped there. “You’re alright, darlin’,” she says softly, and her thick Irish accent reminds him of his granny and he settles, though he supposes whatever that was that she just gave him helped him along as well. “You’re in hospital. You’ve been here almost a week, but you’re alright now, my love.”  
  
There’s such a fog in his head that he almost doesn’t catch any of her words, but they seem to filter back into his consciousness when she stands and smoothes her tunic. Edward thinks she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life. He makes to tell her so, but his tongue is leaden and slack in his mouth, and he moans and drools instead.   
  
Her hand is back on his forehead, stroking at his hair. “Oh, bless your heart,” she’s saying, and tunnel vision sets in. He feels like his head is a balloon and his neck is a string, slowly getting longer. “Your mam will be here soon to see you. Get some rest now, darlin’.” Longer and longer.  
  
He has no choice in the matter, really. Whatever that was has sent him loopy and he can’t quite grasp what’s real anymore. His fingers curl into the sheets at his sides and his eyes close despite his best efforts.   
  
"John," he forces out, though it just sounds like another thick slur. "I want John." It’s a warble even to his ears and he can’t see her reaction but her hand stills.   
  
"Sleep, Edward."  
  
So he does.


	11. 1968: this is a gift, it comes with a price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drug use and sex. Wahey.

**1968**

Their fingers are in each other’s hair, deep and twisting through the dirty blond locks. Brylcreem-sticky and there’s toothpaste on the corner of Edward’s mouth that doesn’t get wiped off by John until a good ten minutes later when their hair is done proper. His brother’s eyes are clouded by something when it happens, but if John’s honest with himself, Edward’s eyes have been looking like that all too often since The Fight. It’s capitalised and everything in his head; important and heavy in its seriousness. The Fight was two years ago now, and they’ve had many - professional and otherwise - since, but that was the one. It’s The Fight that John feels true remorse about, the only one he’s had those sorts of feelings about.   
  
He’s scarred his brother, he’s split Edward’s lip and he’s beaten him black and blue, he’s choked him up against the wall in their bedroom when Edward’s given him lip, he’s kicked him hard when he’s fallen, he’s put him in hospital for a week, for fuck’s sake, and Edward’s done it all back to him and then some and they don’t feel anything. They don’t talk about it after and they definitely never apologise. When Edward broke his nose in the ring eighteen months ago, there was nothing to it. Their grandad reset the bone right there by the ropes and John took his gloves off to shake Edward’s hand in congratulations and that was that.   
  
So he most certainly won’t be asking his brother why he looks at him funny sometimes, or why he’s still too sharp with his tongue no matter how many times John beats seven shades of shit out of him to teach him a lesson. It isn’t something he needs to know. He just can’t place his finger on the looks Edward gives him, that’s all. Edward’s eyes are cold and strange and they make something twist in John’s guts, and it’s almost as if Edward is trying to remember who the hell John is, and then it’s over before John can even think about it anymore. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

  
When they head downstairs, their mother calls them into the kitchen so she can get a look at them before they go, and it’s a ritual they know well, but they’ll always indulge her. “Oh, my boys,” she says, proud and bright, and though her body gets smaller in stature through the years, the hug she pulls them into is always enough to squeeze the air from them both. Edward’s always the first to dismiss their mum’s babbling: for whatever reason, he’s been more self-conscious about his looks since John split his lip, even though John’s face is full of fucking scars and his teeth cross over to boot. It’s not as if it ever affects his pulling chances, Edward still gets plenty action, so John never knows why he bothers with the modest act each weekend in the kitchen. Not that their mum knows that’s what they get up to. John supposes she thinks they still try to charm and court a girl before they get into her knickers, but it’s just another case of what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.  
  
God, if she only knew the half of it, he thinks as he smirks, arm coming around Edward’s shoulders to usher him out of the door.  
  
—-  
  
The half of it is that they don’t really care who gets their rocks off, so long as they do, and this time it’s Edward’s face in a girl’s neck and her hand down his trousers in the corridor on the way to the toilets of all places. John is still at the bar, but he knows. He knew from the moment she sat with them, with Edward making a point to top up her drink every so often with glugs from his flask. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the pub by a long shot, so maybe Edward needed something to take the edge off first. He doesn’t want to dwell on it in any case. He doesn’t need to think about what nonsense his brother is panting into some blonde bit’s hair, how Edward looks when he comes.  
  
Lou pours him another pint and he nods his thanks before he lights up a fag, extending the flame of his lighter to a woman beside him. She’s prettier than whatever Edward dragged off, but John soon realises that she isn’t the type to let him top up  _her_  drink with more vodka. She’s older than the pair of them, her lined blue eyes creased at the edges, her lipstick bleeding a little into the skin around her mouth when she pulls on her cigarette. There’s something about her smile though that has John trying that little bit harder than he usually would.  
  
Soon enough Edward is back at the bar, not even looking the slightest bit dishevelled, and the girl is nowhere to be seen. John tilts his head towards his brother for whatever might be offered in the way of explanation but there’s nothing, and after Edward orders a whisky from Lou, he gives John another one of those looks that John doesn’t know how to feel about.   
  
"Oh, you’re the Grimes twins," the woman pipes up. Edward gives his usual 100-watt smile in return and John wants to punch his teeth out right then and there. It wasn’t a competition, and John knew that, but it smarts. He’s had his fun, surely it was John’s turn now? "You’re John, aren’t you?" And John is about to correct her, until he realises she’s actually looking at him as she speaks, and then it’s his turn to smile, trying not to relish too much in how Edward glowers quietly into his glass.  
  
—-  
  
It’s late, and usually John can hold his drink, but he’s muddled tonight and it takes him three tries to light his last fag. She helps, she holds his hand steady, and John can see Edward scoffing from beside him, and her name is Tara. He knows what his brother is thinking, and it’s not a weird twin thing where they can read each other’s thoughts. No, it’s just that John knows Edward well enough to know he likes them young, and he’s wondering why John is bothering with her when she seems at the upper end of thirty. As if it were a crime to actually want a good fuck for once instead of the clumsy pissed-up tarts his brother always seems to pull.   
  
He’s been dancing around the subject all night, they’ve been flirting and he still hasn’t asked outright, and the moment he opens his mouth to speak her name, Lou rings the bell for last orders and he simply snaps his jaw shut, smiling dumbly instead. Tara’s hand is on his and her nails are red just like her lips and she obviously, obviously has money, all her jewellery isn’t gaudy like what he usually sees and she smells good as she leans in to look up at him under her lashes. He almost feels nervous, like she might turn him down after all this, like she’ll just laugh and call him a silly little boy and go home. He blinks at her hand again, her rings coming back into focus. It takes him a moment to discern which of her hands is on his - is it the left, or the right? - and once he realises, his heart drops.   
  
"Never mind that, love," she’s mumbling, noticing that he’s clocked her wedding ring, and presses their mouths together. There’s a screech of the stool dragging on the floor as Edward stands to get his last drink in at the bar, and John doesn’t give a fuck, not till a glass clunks down by his arm and Edward’s fingers are pressing into his shoulder.   
  
"Johnny," he says softly, it’s almost too soft for John to catch with the hubbub of the bar and the faded notes of the jukebox, but he hears it. Edward’s close to his back and John can smell him before he sees him, before he opens his eyes again and tries not to look like an inexperienced twat in front of Tara. Because he’s not, he’s really not - he knows how to fuck, girls have told him so, and he’s good, if she would just…   
  
She reaches for the whisky herself and knocks it back, beaming at them both. “Gonna have to be your place, innit?”  
  
—-  
  
It isn’t their place, it’s never their place. God, John can’t imagine ever bringing a girl home like this, a girl like this home. Luckily Lou always lets them have a room upstairs when they can’t go elsewhere and there’s nothing said, because the boys keep the trouble out of his pub better than the bouncers do. Especially since the Geordie incident.  
  
Thankfully, John thinks, Edward is staying fairly quiet, his usual sarcastic comments dampened down by Guinness and whisky. That leaves John in a good place to just get on with things, and Tara is all over him on the bed for what feels like a good while, kissing and rubbing and he doesn’t know how long it is, but he’s still not naked, and suddenly Edward bursts out laughing.  
  
"What?" He snaps, wishing it to sound harsher than it comes out. It’s blunt and it’s drunk, it has no effect, and Edward stands from where he’d been sitting in the corner, crossing to the bed and reaching out for Tara. "No, no you fucking don’t-" he goes to push himself up but the heel of his palm slips on the sheets and he’s going nowhere, so Tara stands.   
  
"He’s so drunk, babe, I thought he was asleep," she giggles and this time John succeeds in sitting up and shoots them a glare that finally silences them both. "Honestly, though…" her voice is so smoke-warm, so husky, so much older, John fucking loves it, tells her as much with open-mouthed kisses to her neck when she sits on the edge of the bed again. "I thought you would’ve fucked off by now." She’s speaking to Edward, and John’s too busy trying to prove how awake he really is, drunk or not, he can fuck, he can.  
  
"Do you want me to?" John doesn’t need to look to know that Edward’s doing that thing where he tilts his head and looks how he does. He’s done thinking about it, though. Right now his concentration is on sneaking his hands beneath Tara’s dress.  
  
"No, love, no!" She’s giggling again and shifts herself back on the bed a little more, legs parting finally, and John groans into her neck at the sensation of lace and silk against his seeking fingers. "I got something for you, anyway. Present for you both." He looks up at that, blinks first at her, and twists his head to look at Edward, who looks equally as confused. She reaches into her bra and pulls out a small piece of folded-up paper. "Might perk you up, love," she whispers to John, and he hopes his face doesn’t betray the embarrassment that burns through him in that moment.  
  
"What is it?" Edward speaks too quickly and John wishes he’d shut the fuck up again, because even though he’s pretty drunk, he still knows what’s in that wrap, he’s not as naive as his brother, he doesn’t want Tara to think he’s that fucking dumb. She’s already leaning over to the bedside table to tip out the contents, and if Edward hasn’t got it by now, John feels like he really could strangle him.  
  
They’ve never tried anything like this before. They’d been smoking since they were fifteen and it was around the same time that they started stealing whisky from their dad, but heavy drinking in the pub at the weekend was as far as it went. John’s heard things about this, though: all the rich people do it, all the smarmy cunts he and Edward meet on their odd jobs for Lou or Liam, it’s rife amongst them and yet he’s never had the urge to, until now. Tara is fashioning the white powder into neat little piles, there’s four there but only three of them, which leaves him confused for a moment until she bends down with a rolled up tenner he didn’t even notice her getting, hoovering one straight up.  
  
Edward looks like how John might if he wasn’t so drunk: uneasy, nervous perhaps, and his fingers are fiddling with his tie while Tara dabs at her nostril and grins at the two of them. “Your turn, sweetheart,” her voice purrs, and she’s offering Edward the note and John knows that his brother won’t do anything until John has done it first, so he intercepts and takes it for himself. He tries his best to look like he knows what he’s doing, copying Tara’s moves to the dot; presses his other nostril with a finger while the other hand holds the note to his nose, sniffs along the line in one deep, slow inhale.   
  
There’s a tickle for the briefest of seconds and then nothing, a slight bleachy taste in the back of his throat but nothing too unpleasant, and an itch that he instantly rubs away with a swipe of his hand under his nose. Whatever it is - cocaine, he does know the name, coke, blow, whatever, he’s not Edward - is working, maybe it’s been a few minutes since, and it seems to be clearing the fog of booze in his head, only just. Slowly, now picking up momentum as he feels his heart skip, shudder, speed up. His fingers brush against Edward’s as he hands the tenner over and there’s electricity, suddenly, it makes him gasp despite himself, then Tara’s mouth shushes him as it covers his own, plump and damp.  
  
He hears Edward sniffing, and then there’s the rustle of fabric as what he guesses is his brother’s tie falls to the floor. The creak of the chair in the corner of the room as Edward sits, and John wonders how it’s feeling for him, because he feels magnificent. He’s kissing Tara with more fervour than before, and she’s mewling for him, her fingers scrabbling against his shirt, and he tugs off his own tie, lets her painted nails slip over his buttons and pull his shirt open. After a moment he bats her off, wrestles his hands to her back to unzip her dress and get it gone, and there’s a sigh from both twins at the sight of her ample chest, shuddering with unsteady breaths.  
  
"That’s better, huh, Johnny," she coos, and he can’t help but laugh, covering her body with his own, their hands everywhere on each other in the joint effort of seeking flesh as quickly as possible. In between kisses he sneaks a glance up, watches Edward’s eyes in the dim light and can’t read them. His brother is sprawled in the armchair, eyes hooded. His pale hand is a contrast to his black trousers and that’s how John notices first where it is and then what it’s doing. Strangely, he’s not shocked or disgusted at the sight of his brother palming himself while he gets off with a girl, but he’s not going to give it much more thought, either. Not when Tara’s hand finally finds his own cock.  
  
—-  
  
She’s insatiable and dirty and he’s still hard, so that works. John’s satisfied he was bang on the money when he guessed at older women being better for him than Edward’s bimbo types. It’s when she dismounts him and flops onto her back that he wonders if her husband appreciates what a fox she is, or is she a fox because he doesn’t? She reaches for him again and he rolls onto her, into her, grinning into her shoulder at the soft and almost-relieved sigh she gives. He chances another look at Edward, still hard too it seems, slender fingers not really bothering much with himself at the moment, barely there touches to the cock that John hasn’t seen since they had to share baths as kids. Hasn’t ever seen like this, either, proud and flushed, jutting out from the opening in his trousers.   
  
He tries not to think about it, tries not to think about anything, but Tara’s moans are so loud. There’s a glint in Edward’s eyes as he catches them and maybe there is a weird twin thing where they can read each other’s thoughts, because John’s pretty sure he knows what Edward wants. He wants it too. “Let’s try this,” he’s muttering, tugging at her, pulling her up and urging her to turn around, pushing her face into the pillows the moment she does. His hands brace her hips as he pushes back into her, and her filthy words are muffled by stuffing, now. It takes him a moment, but when John looks up again, Edward is actually smiling.  
  
There is no more looking away, now. Their eyes are locked and John’s lost. Edward’s hand is picking up the pace, soon matching John’s thrusts. It’s so fucking weird, he thinks. Every squeeze of her walls around him seem to match when Edward shivers slightly, when he arches his hips up to his hand is when John’s moan rings out, hoarse. “Oh, baby,” Tara is panting, trying to turn her face to him, but John fists fingers in her hair to push her back into the pillows, fucking into her harder, hips slapping against her arse. There’s a flash of pink against white as Edward’s tongue slips past his teeth to wet his lips, and John’s groaning again. Was it that, or her? He’s not sure. He’s lost, he’s fucked.  
  
He’s close.  _They’re_  close, and he hates how he can tell, but it fascinates him all the same. Edward hasn’t made a sound since this started, but his chest is heaving in his half-unbuttoned shirt, pulling and pushing his breaths much faster, cheeks flushed. It strikes John suddenly how fucking  _pretty_  his brother is, and he fucking hates that too, the long sweep of his eyelashes, the swollen bow of his lips. He slams his hips into Tara’s trembling body twice more and comes with a growl, pulling out not too long after and getting up to stand on shaking legs. He is determined now with snorting the final line, hauling off to the bathroom when he’s finished. He doesn’t need to think about what Edward looks like when he comes.


End file.
